


After the Glitter Fades: Marginalia

by Sasskarian



Series: Glitter: A Modern Thedas Tale [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Late at Night, Nightmares, One Night Stands, Satinalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-12-25 00:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12024414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasskarian/pseuds/Sasskarian
Summary: an ongoing collection of drabbles, deleted scenes, and tumblr prompts set in the hollywood au modern thedas world of Glitterverse.





	1. Something Just Like This

**Note** : mild trigger warning for substance use and sexual encounters

 **Time Frame** : Between Chapters 1 and 2

 **Characters:** Fenris; Marian Hawke

* * *

She can’t remember what had dragged her awake, only that it left a sour, desperate taste in her mouth like old coppers and the cheapest bottle of whatever would get her drunk enough to sleep. 

Waking up with nightmares is nothing new. The Amell curse, as most of the Kirkwall film crews called it, has yet to hit Hawke directly, but it had taken her father (a mis-capped dagger) and her mother and uncle (an unlucky intruder)– had struck Carver, too. She and Garrett and Bethie are safe, so far, but it's only a matter of time until it circles back around.

 _Ah, Kirkwall_ , she thinks, some blend of annoyance and fondness and adrenaline mixing uneasily in her heart.  _You fuck with us again and again and still, here we are._

Years have passed since her darkest days, where Hawke didn’t much care where she woke up or with whom, where the cool, smooth blanks in her memory from whatever she could get her hands on to take the pain away didn’t trouble her. (Now they do, of course, but that's because she’d gone and made the mistake of growing up along the way.) But for the life of her, the memories leading up to wherever she is are uncomfortably fuzzy, more sensory than anything.

_Cool glass against skin and deep red wine staining mouths. His hands broad, calloused, knee-meltingly strong around her hips, mouth hot and gentle on her neck._

Hawke’s eyes snap open for the second time that night and the breath she sucks in is shaky, awareness returning with a crash as an arm sneaks around her waist and squeezes companionably.

_Fenris._

Certainty isn’t really Hawke’s game, but she’ll bet every last royal in her (ridiculous) bank account that it’s Fenris in the bed next to her, and that she’s either gotten very,  _very_  lucky or something terrible has happened. She ignores the pleasant warmth seeping from him and almost jumps when his nose brushes the nape of her neck.

“Hawke?” His voice, already deep (and oh, how  _good_  her name sounds rumbling out of his mouth like it belongs there) is rusty with sleep and, like a moth to flame, Hawke finds herself turning to face him.

At least, she  _assumes_  she’s facing him– the room is pitch black. Not even a crack of moonlight or lamplight from outside gives her a clue how they’re situated, but under her hands, his chest rises and falls with each breath.

“It’s me,” Hawke whispers, not quite able to stop her palms from inching across him. Something in her is hungry for the warmth of his skin, the way his breath sighs across her brow and the mattress creaks under them, for all of– of  _whatever_  this is.

“Mn,” is the only reply she gets, but he reels her closer effortlessly, the hard jut of his chin brushing the top of her head, much like it had earlier in the night when he’d backed her against the wall to kiss her.

_Oh, hey. I’m remembering stuff._

Now that she’s awake, the hazy quality of her memory rings of wine, and the good, strong stuff, but she knows how to handle that. Hawke closes her eyes and gets a mouthwatering flash of a long-sleeved sweater and bared neck despite the summer heat, of fingers gently stroking along her palm and her thumb wiping away a smear of cream from his lips. There might have been a long, sweet kiss in a car somewhere in there, but pushing harder made her head swim.

Or maybe that's just him.

Fenris has a way of stealing her breath lately, of leaving her shaking and storm-blown inside, that she doesn’t know what to make of. Watching him wrestle her huge mabari on the carpeted floor, the way he had her cat (who didn’t like anyone, even her) sniffing delicately at those warrior’s hands, the heat in his eyes that had been banking since their first real kiss– it all added up to something that burned and ached and  _writhed_  in her chest.

Something she isn’t sure she  _wants_.

“Shh,” Fenris murmurs, his palm splaying across her bare shoulderblades, and she can’t stop herself from surging up, despite the sarcastic voice rolling its eyes in the back of her head that kissing him again is  _definitely_  going to help her predicament. Hawke’s nose bumps his cheek and there’s a brief but awkward moment where she thinks she might be kissing his chin before he takes pity on her and cups her cheek, bringing their mouths together with a sleep-rough chuckle.

The hours-old wine has done him no more favors than it has her, but at the first brush of his lips along hers, she just stops caring. The sharp press of his nails against her skin keeps her grounded, but then she’s  _flying_  as he slicks their tongues together. Under the wine and the sleep, the richness of him, she can taste the faintest tang of lyrium and she’s all but  _gone_.

One of them moans, sleepy and sex-dragged-over-glass-rough, but she loves it and she loves  _him_ and in that moment– that one, perfect, crystal-clear moment– there is no world, there is no movie hanging over them, no tabloids drooling for scandal. There is no achingly empty Amell estate or sparsely-furnished house that looks more temporary than anything.

There is no nightmare of her dead mother.

Just him, just this.  _This. This this this this–_

Hawke arches into him, their hips bumping, and suddenly, his thigh– warm, strong,  _hard_ – is between hers and he’s rolling until she hovers over him, lyrium glowing just faint enough to let her see his face. The look he wears is startled-deer-wide, vulnerable and not a little breathless-stunned, and the tremble in her fingers as she runs them over his sharp cheeks is real enough to make her heart  _twist._

“Hawke–”

“Shh,” she breathes, dragging him up by the hair to crush her mouth to his. The anxiety that’s kept her company since she was young tells her again that she’s going to regret this in the morning, but the rest– the deepest core of her, the part that looks at the way they  _fit_  together, sliding into each other’s lives long before they’d slid into bed together– doesn’t care.

And as he arches under her, as his arms wind around her hips and her fingertips strain to memorize him, something like love twines through her heart and grabs hold.


	2. Like Something Holy - slight NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kiss Prompt, originally posted on tumblr

#7 - Laughing kiss - Modern Thedas FenHawke

***

Note: It’s a bit NSFW, and a lot silly. Mild angst involved because it’s Hawke and asking Hawke not to be melodramatic is like asking the ocean not to be wet. 

Also, credit for the mabari name goes to @silveritemine on tumblr

***

Maker, she could get  _used_  to this.

“You’ll be the death of me, Hawke,” he murmurs, not sounding too worried about expiring. Her legs drop from around Fenris’ waist with some reluctance, thigh muscles having seized some five minutes and one vision-sparking climax ago. His brow, damp with sweat, drops to her shoulder as he adjusts them, sliding from her body with a bitten-off groan.

With effort, she rolls to her front, propping her chin on her hands and grinning at him. “Yeah, but there are worse ways to go than to die in the arms of a beautiful woman, right?”

“Why?” He drawls, and something in his voice sounds pleased and teasing, light in a way she’d never have guessed hid under the broody facade she’d seen for two years. “Do you see any?”

Hawke squawks in mock outrage as he dodges her half-hearted play slap and pulls her up for a kiss. When they’re both breathless, or, well, more so, he leans back on the pillow, something between a smile and a smirk curving his lips as he skims his knuckles across her jaw. His eyes are intense and serious, despite the play, when he murmurs that he loves her.

And oh, it’s downright  _unfair_ how her heart quivers at that.

This is still new, an unexpected treasure that, one day, she’ll have to swallow her pride enough to thank Varric for. Without her best friend’s hopeless romantic streak, and an unnamed mass of various and sundry connections, her cowardice might have cost her this. Him. Fenris might have… she doesn’t know, doesn’t  _want_  to know, but can’t stop thinking about it all the same. He might have left Kirkwall all together, perhaps, or never forgiven her for running away.

Maybe he’d even have found someone else who wasn’t stupid enough to let the best thing that had ever happened to them go.

“There are shadows in your eyes today,” Fenris says quietly, expression edging toward concern. It still amazes her how easily she can read his face now, something she’d have laughed at when they first met. “Where did you go on me?”

“Darling, I’ve been  _everywhere_  on you.” Her flirty reply is as instinctive as her desire to curl up where he can’t see her fear, and Hawke has to force her face not to shut down and wither, a flower kept secret for only herself. In this, she tries to show her love, her need for him, her penance for hurting him— the Hawke of Old would have closed herself off, slapped on a mask with a smile or a cruel gleam in her eye and bottled her vulnerability up like a fine wine to age and age and never see the light of day.

Lucky for her, Fenris knows how to read her just as well, and his amused snort takes the strange tension right from between her shoulders, a reminder that she’s safe here, with him. She sticks her tongue out at him and shimmies to the edge of the bed, dodging his lazily-grasping hand.

“Get back here,” he demands, missing her arm by an inch or less. “And don’t stick that out unless you intend to use it!”

“Oh, I used it all right.” Hawke smirks over her shoulder at him, grabbing for the shirt he’d ripped off her last night. “And someone needs to make sure we have breakfast so we don’t starve and die. ‘Too much sex,’ however awesome, is  _not_  what is going on Marian Hawke’s tombstone, thank you.”

“Oh? I already had breakfast.” He grins, eyes smug. Hawke’s cheeks flush at his dirty joke, and her tossed pillow and amused, “Perv,” makes him laugh.

His sharp comeback gets lost in the way he makes her heart flutter, sprawled with unconscious grace across her bed; the morning sun kissing his skin makes the lyrium adorning his body gleam like something holy and it takes a few seconds for her fogged brain to realize he’s asking her a question.

“What?” she asks, blinking.

Fenris rolls his eyes. “Is that,” he enunciates carefully, with strained patience; he’s probably already asked a few times, “my shirt?”

Hawke looks down at the white silk and the way it swallows her body, loose through the shoulders and the hem hitting her upper thigh. “Um.” Is it? She can’t remember. “Maybe? I think I stole it after our first night.”

Something powerful, something possessive, flickers across his face, there and gone again too fast for Hawke to fully parse, and without warning, Fenris explodes from the rumpled sheets, mouth curved in what should have been a frightful grin. It is only the lightning-quick flash of love and warmth in his eyes that makes it surprise and not fear that sends Hawke out of the bedroom, shrieking with laughter.

Their feet drum like thunder on the wooden stairs and she hops the last three, changing her direction of momentum with a hand on the bannister, a wide grin on her face. She hears him hit the floor behind her and knows he’s holding himself back— the chase isn’t for catching her, not really. It’s for fun, for the light blooming between two weary hearts like roses in the springtime, and the way he looks clothed in only— she chances a glance backward and sees him deliberately check his pace a bit— a sheet haphazardly knotted around his waist.

Orana—just coming through the front door with groceries— is a blur of pale hair and wide, startled eyes as they race past her, Hawke giggling as Fenris swears. There’s a thud behind her that sounds suspiciously like him hitting the wall but she doesn’t let it slow her, long legs carrying her towards the walled-off garden with ease. Fingers graze the back of her shirt and she squeals out a laugh as they unerringly find the ticklish spot on her waist before she pulls ahead again.

Only with him does she play like this. Only Fenris sees this side of Hawke.

Only with him, she thinks as she bursts through the Orlesian doors, sending them banging against the wall as her bare feet hit dew-wet grass— and skids, sending her crashing tits over arse to the cold ground with a yelp.

Fenris, not expecting the game to stumble to a halt so soon, lands in a sprawling heap across her, grunting with the bone-jarring force even as he rolls to keep the brunt of the impact from her.

Hawke opens her mouth— to laugh, to apologize, to yell, even she isn’t sure, but two massive paws on her chest push the air from her lungs with a pained gust before she can speak. A loud, joyful mabari bark sets her head to ringing on her shoulders as surely as any wine ever had and her attempts to push the beast off only result in a face full of dog drool and the faint echo of Fenris’ laughter.

“Shut up,” she growls, not sure if she means the dog— wagging his tail so hard, his entire rump is moving— or her lover, gasping in the grass. She whispers something in Grrlock’s ear and Fenris has just enough time to notice the absence of Hawke’s sputtering before—

“Oof!”

Hawke is sure that he’s cursing her name, swears and colorful phrases strung together in as many languages as she can identify as Grrlock slurps a kiss across Fenris’ face. She wraps her arms around her ribs and sits back, laughter bubbling in her chest as the two of them wrestle on the ground.

This is what she’s missed for so long, what she hadn’t known she needed.

She snickers as she crawls over to him, nudging the dog. Grrlock, mission accomplished, catches her ear in one last wet lick and trots off, tongue lolling out in a mabari smile as he finds a patch of sunlight and flops over, stretching.

Hawke turns back to Fenris, busy wiping dog drool from his face, and reaches out a finger to swipe at his cheek, laughing when it comes away sticky. Fenris sighs and scrubs his face against the sheet until his skin is pink and finally dry, and Hawke grabs for him.

The sun is shining true now, no longer just a promise along the horizon, gleaming bright off his hair and golden skin, and she thinks there’s never been anything more beautiful. The Maker himself could have sculpted this moment, carved it out of the waters of the Fade just for her, it’s so sacred and soul-shaking.

His fingers are gentle when he plucks a twig out of her snarled curls, a quiet smile on his lips and then his arms are safe and warm around her. She has just a moment before he sweeps her up tight against his chest and is striding through her hallway, kicking the garden doors shut behind them.

“Fiend,” he murmurs affectionately, warm and soft and  _hers_  and the jar of him climbing the stairs saves Hawke from saying something embarrassing, like  _Maker, I love you_ or  _I feel like my heart is going to split open_  or  _I’m yours until I die_. “You’re a demon, Hawke.”

“Mm,” she murmurs agreeably, fingers busy tracing the edge of his lyrium with her nails to watch him shiver. “But I’m  _your_  demon. And who needs food anyway?”

It’s a rhetorical question and they both know it, an excuse to go back to bed and lose another hour or two in each other, and Fenris shakes his head as he lets her slide down to her feet in the doorway. When he kisses her, he tastes like laughter, and sunshine, and all the good things in this world that Hawke hasn’t been paying attention to, and she laughs against his mouth, so in love she almost can’t stand it.


	3. Satinalia, Ruined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Well done, Fen.” Hawke crosses her arms and looks at her lover, trying to unobtrusively melt into the wall. “You just ruined Satinalia.”_
> 
> _Fenris splutters, a flush of dark red riding high on his sharp cheekbones. “How was I supposed to know that lyrium is flammable?”_

#6 FenHawke – Ruined Christmas

 ***

“Well done, Fen.” Hawke crosses her arms and looks at her lover, trying to unobtrusively melt into the wall. “You just ruined Satinalia.”

Fenris splutters, a flush of dark red riding high on his sharp cheekbones. “How was I supposed to know that lyrium is flammable?”

“They  _are_  your markings,” Varric says into his glass, taking a long sip of brandy to avoid looking at him. “Since they’re, I don’t know,  _part of you_ , I kind of assumed you’d know stuff about them.”

Fenris snarls and pushes away from the wall, not looking at the scorched, warped mess that had once been a top-of-the-line oven. He doesn’t look at Hawke’s amused smirk, or Varric’s less-than-impressed, carefully-neutral face. He doesn’t look at Carver, leaning heavily against his crutches or Anders, hovering awkward and anxious in the background.

Instead, he looks at Orana, at those big, green eyes and the wavering lip as she stares at the destruction his markings had wrought. He watches her hide the first of her frustrated tears in Merrill’s shoulder, stone to the way Garrett tries and fails to make a joke.

In truth, he hadn’t  _meant_  to explode the oven. He’d just been reaching in to take the cookies out, since Garrett had hoisted both Orana and Merrill up on his shoulders, laughing and tipsy and  _kind_  in the way only the big, bear-like man could be. But a stray tongue of fire had licked up against his lyrium and  _boom_ , he was blown backwards into the wall, Hawke had come running, and the oven had given one last shuddering cough as the shrapnel settled.

In truth, he  _should_  have known that his lyrium was destructive.

In truth, it didn’t really  _matter_  because Hawke is upset underneath that smirk, and Varric is torn between amusement and anger, and Carver has that awful disappointed look in his eyes, the one that sucker-punches Fenris right in the gut—he’s only met Hawke’s little brother twice before now, and each time, he’s done something stupid. It doesn’t  _matter_  that he’d only been trying to help, because the Maker-damned oven is in  _pieces_  and the pretty little elf who lives with Hawke is  _crying_  and—

“Fenris!”

Hawke shouts his name as he grabs his coat and doesn’t even bother opening the door, opting to simply phase through it. It’s better this way, he thinks as the wind and snow sting his eyes; if he’d used the door like a normal person, as Varric would undoubtedly mock him for, he’d only have slammed it behind him.

***

“You’re looking down, lovely,” the bartender says to him, her golden labret glinting in the dim light. “I do hate seeing a pretty thing in distress.”

Fenris growls at the overly-familiar hand lingering near his, wishing he’d taken Hawke’s gift of her father’s ring after all. Why can’t anyone just leave him  _alone?_  If he’d wanted company, he would have stayed at Hawke’s—except he wouldn’t. He knows—he  _knows_ —that Hawke was only teasing, trying to lighten the disaster to something tolerable, but her words keep rubbing at him and working their way under his skin to fragment, to fester:  _You just ruined Satinalia._

“I don’t get many people in here on Satinalia Eve,” the barkeep murmurs. Fenris isn’t sure if she’s talking to him or to hear her own voice; either way, he doesn’t answer. Let the wench talk. “Less than I’d expect, actually. Kirkwall isn’t the happiest place in Thedas, no matter what kind of filmmaking holy land we’ve turned ourselves into.”

Almost against his will, Fenris finds his eyes drawn to hers. “Isabela,” she says, tipping her great, floppy hat at him with a flourish. “Captain, owner, and proprietor of the Siren’s Call, inherited from my late husband, Maker damn his sorry soul.”

Fenris eyes her again. There is something in her whiskey-warm eyes that reminds him of Varric, the glint of trouble on the horizon and a past full of questionably-accurate stories. The wicked curve of her smirk brings Hawke to mind, and that  _hurts_ in a way Fenris is afraid to poke at.  _You ruined Satinalia._ His phone hasn’t rung, and the birdcall text notice Anders had linked him to with a knowing grin hasn’t made an appearance.

“Fenris,” he says finally, taking her slim hand in his.

“Oh, I  _know_ ,” Isabela purrs, jerking her thumb back to point at one of the Champion 3 posters adorning the bar wall. He’d missed it when he stumbled in out of the snowstorm howling down Kirkwall’s narrow streets, but in the dim light his vision has since adjusted to, he can see Hawke in all her resplendent glory, staff thrown out and a fireball the same blue-green color of her eyes glittering in her hand. Next to her, Fenris stands with his sword at the ready, dented armor and battle-soaked hair plastered to his head—and a look in his eyes reserved for Hawke that even now reeks of love.

“Of course,” he mutters, taking another pull of his wine. He remembers the day the promo material had been shot, how he and Hawke had bristled and circled each other, uneasy as stray cats meeting in an alley. How he’d looked at her, standing under the lights, perfect and too beautiful to look at, how her eyes had darted from his each time he tried to get her attention. “There’s probably no one in this blighted city who doesn’t know me.”

“Probably not,” Isabela agrees, tilting her head at him. “And probably just as many know that your romance with the Amell girl didn’t end on the silver screen, hm?” He scoffs and holds out his glass for a refill. “So why are you parked in my bar and not in that big-ass mansion across town?”

Fenris is silent for a while, letting the taste of the bitter red wine and sweet orange slices tingle on his tongue before he swallows. He opens his mouth to tell Isabela to mind her own business, but strangely, whether it’s years of working with Varric, or the memory of Orana’s crying, or knowing how Hawke is probably huddled at home, curled up between Carver and Garrett without him—whatever it is, he instead tells her the whole sorry tale.

“And it just… blew? Poof?”

“More like a,” Fenris pauses, too much wine making it difficult to find the words he wants, “ _boom._ ” It’s not the exact word, but he’s not sure there  _is_  a word for the combination explosion and tinkle of shrapnel that had blown up Hawke’s kitchen.

_Ruined. Satinalia._

Isabela hums under her breath, setting the empty bottle around her hip and out of his reach and smacking his knuckles when he goes to reach for it. She hops down from the bar, grabs her cell phone, and steps around to what he presumes is her office, speaking low. If he cares enough to eavesdrop, and he doesn’t, really, he’s too distracted by the line of model ships along the back wall, he could barely hear the name  _Athenril_.

That’s a name he can stand to not hear for a while. Not that the hacker isn’t a nice person and all. She is. She’s just…  _intense._  And, as Hawke says, “judgey.” That’s a good word for her:  _judgey._

“Come on, then, boyo,” Isabela says, slipping her arm under his shoulder. He didn’t notice her come back from her call, but he’s too uncoordinated to fight effectively as she tugs his jacket over his liquefied arms and pours him into her small, gold car. Fenris tries, he really does, to keep his focus on the brightly-lit homes, warmed with holiday decorations and, if he concentrates, the swell of holiday music.

Wait. No. That’s Isabela’s radio.

She hums along as she turns the wheel and merges smooth and sweet onto the freeway that leads to Hightown, gleefully making a rude gesture at someone who honked at them. Fenris tries to ask if she knows where she’s going, or maybe why she’s taking him back where he doesn’t belong, or maybe just ask what song is playing—even he isn’t sure what he’s mumbling, but he doesn’t fight the comforting pat of Isabela’s hand on his as he fumbles with the volume control, even as she chuckles at him.

“You’re not the first heartbroken person I’ve driven home,” she says softly, the lights of the oncoming cars passing over her face. “Not that that means I’m a soft goodie two-shoes, you see.”

“’Course not,” Fenris agrees, too tired to argue, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window and letting the night swallow him whole.

***

Too soon, they pull up in front of Hawke’s estate, and Isabela has just helped Fenris stand up when Marian is flying down the stairs, slipping on the ice a little.

“Fenris!” is all he hears before she slams into him, her arms tight around his neck. Awkwardly, he holds her, although he isn’t sure if it’s for comfort or to keep himself from falling over. She leads him back into the house, and he wavers only a little, though the shivering cold air is helping him surface from the ocean of mulled wine Isabela has poured into him. Or, let him pour into himself. Whatever.

“It’s perfect,” Hawke says, grabbing his face and planting kisses wherever she can reach. “You’re terrible and awful for running out but it’s perfect and I love you.”

“What’s perfect?” he asks, glancing at Isabela, who looks far too satisfied with herself as she tips her hat at Varric.

“Rivaini,” the dwarf says, and there’s something  _amused_  in the way he looks at her, something that speaks of past encounters and of  _course_  Varric knows her, because it’s Varric and there isn’t a midlife or lowlife or criminal in Kirkwall that Varric doesn’t know. “So you brought our wayward elf home, hm? Out of the goodness of your cold, dead heart?”

“Of course, Varric,” Isabela smiles, and Fenris is reminded of the way a dragon must smile at a sheep it plans to eat, because her eyes glitter in the warm light and the gold labret flashes beneath that smirk. It’s downright  _predatory_  and Fenris opens his mouth to warn Varric, or to scold Isabela, or  _something_  that never happens because Grrlock is barking so loud his head rings and Hawke is beaming as she pulls him inside.

He is led around to the kitchen where—and Fenris has to blink to make sure he’s not having some sort of wine-induced hallucination—there is a shiny new appliance in front of a beaming Orana, who squeals out a “Mister Fenris!” and launches herself at him. An undignified “Oof” is all he can manage around the stranglehold she has on him.

Fenris twists his head back to look at Isabela, who winks at him and pulls a piece of paper from her sleeve, tucking it between two branches of the large tree in the foyer. With a pat to Grrlock’s head and a final tip of her hat, she’s gone as mysteriously as she came, leaving Fenris to wonder what, exactly, he’s gotten himself into as Hawke mumbles apologies and praise for his apparent purchase.

***

Fenris freezes as the floorboard creaks under his foot. Dawn is a few minutes from breaking, and Hawke is nestled into a mound of covers in their bed, warm and soft and so much like home it hurts to be separated for even a minute. Orana is probably dozing in her quarters, while Carver snores on the couch and Grrlock—tips his ears forward and opens his eyes, rump giving a tentative wag.

The mabari watches as Fenris pads quietly over to the tree, but doesn’t bark, instead rolling and presenting his belly. It’s a blatant request for a bribe, but Fenris doesn’t mind scratching the short, spiky fur as he reads the note Isabela left:

_Happy Satinalia, movie star. We’ll talk about settling your account later._

_-Kirkwall’s Best Criminal_

Isabela has pressed one dark rum-colored kiss to bottom of Athenril’s “handle,” and he sighs, shoving the note into the pocket of his new robe. He’ll have time to worry about that when Satinalia is over.


End file.
